


The Snake's Tongue

by Murf1307



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Rape/Non-con References, References to the Cage, Split-Tongue kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Immediately post “Repo Man.”  Lucifer has Sam just where he wants him, and he’ll seal that with his tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Snake's Tongue

Obscene.  That’s the first word that flicks through Sam’s head when Lucifer’s tongue flicks out, split like a snake’s.  He  _is_  the Snake, of course, named in Revelation, but it had never been as clear as it becomes every time he sees that tongue.   
  
No amount of hallucination or shift in perception can change that tongue.   
  
Sam remembers that tongue, remembers it swiping down his neck as he was caught, chained, while Michael and Adam were elsewhere – because while Michael and Lucifer are of equal power, Lucifer had spent Earth-millennia (far, far longer than millennia in Hell) in the Cage and knew, and knows, every nook and cranny and trick to play.   
  
He looks away.   
  
Later, Dean is asleep on the next bed, and Lucifer laughs.  Fire rages around them as he does, and Sam can only watch.  He knows that it’s all a lie, that Lucifer isn’t here, that the archangel is still Caged, but it hardly helps.  No amount of real pain can save him now, no trigger can drive him out.   
  
“Sammy,” Lucifer whispers, once he’s done laughing, “Sammy, it’s so nice to have you back.”   
  
A chill races up and down Sam’s spine as Lucifer leans in close.  He knows what’s coming next, knows he can’t fight it because you can’t fight a hallucination, and there’s only so far you can fight your own mind.   
  
_That tongue_  traces the shell of his ear, and the bed dips as Sam closes his eyes.   
  
“You’re not real,” he mumbles, glad that Dean sleeps like the dead sometimes.  He can risk the whispering, can risk it because Dean can’t hear what’s going on in Sam’s head where he sits alone on the next bed, talking to a devil who isn’t there.  “This is all in my head.”   
  
“Sam, of course this is all in your head – but whyever should that mean it isn’t real?”  Cold breath shivers the hair lying against his neck.   
  
Sam keeps his eyes closed, his body tense.  He feels the heat of the fire and the cold void that is Lucifer beside him.  He won’t give in to either thing, because they’re not real and they never will be again.  He won’t ever forget Hell, but he won’t let it control him.   
  
“This is the second time you rolled out the welcome mat,” Lucifer says.  Then he drags his tongue along the sharp bones of Sam’s jaw, and Sam has to suppress a shiver.   
  
Lucifer chuckles darkly around a twist of his tongue, the fork in it letting him skate both sides of Sam’s jaw at once.  He pulls away just enough that when he speaks, his lips brush against the wetness he’s left with his tongue, saying, “And I’m never rude enough to turn down an invitation.”   
  
“Fuck.  Off.”   
  
An arm slides across his shoulders from behind, pressing him close to the unbearable cold.   
  
“Sam,” Lucifer whispers, reproving and subtly hurt.  “Doesn’t really matter what you tell me to do, does it?  I mean, I’ve won, and I’ve won where it counts – inside you.”   
  
There’s something filthy about the last two words, and Sam knows that that  _had_  to have been intentional.   
  
“So give in, Sammy.  You know Hell wasn’t all bad, that I could make it good when you let me.  Didn’t have to be all about the rack, right?”  Lucifer’s voice is honeyed poison, and damn him, Sam remembers all too well.   
  
He remembers their bed.   
  
He remembers  _years_  spent in that bed, working their way through the whole damn Kama Sutra, and remembers the way that tongue feels when it wanders below his jaw, down into the dip of his clavicle or into the divots between the muscles in his chest.   
  
He remembers too much of Hell, because the years on the rack have blended with the years in bed and he doesn’t know which was worse to wake up remembering – that the devil had torn you to pieces and taken,  _owned_  every part of you…   
  
…Or that, at times, you’d liked it.   
  
“Fuck,” he whispers, mouth barely framing the word as he turns toward that tongue and that face, familiar and frightening in that familiarity as he opens his eyes.   
  
Lucifer leans in to kiss him, and the fire rages on.


End file.
